Corunna’s chieftain, he was there,
With gallant Wetherall,
And many loyal men, prepared
To conquer or to fall.
How British bayonets did their Work
Let razed St. Charles tell;
St. Eustache, also, where in scores
The dastard rebels fell.
Of gallant Markham would I sing,
And others if I could;
Of Weir, who most inhumanly
Was murdered in cold blood.
But soon the traitors were compelled
With grief to bite the dust;
They crouched beneath the British flag,
As every traitor must.
But where were they, the gallant chiefs,
Who led the people on?
In vain you searched, for they away
To Yankee-land had gone.
Among the rebels there were found
Some dozen M.P.P.’s;
Who now confined in jail may pass
The winter at their ease.
But to Sir Mac. we now return,
From whom we’ve strayed too long;
This verse, I think, will just conclude
The middle of my song.
Mackenzie and his rebel gang
In Doel’s brewery met,
“A bung-hole pack,” Jim Dalton calls
This mischief-brewing set.
And there they laid down all their plans
Of this great revolution,
And destined Rolph to be the head
Of their new Constitution.
At length unto this crew the Knight
A flaming speech addressed,
And told the plan which after all
Did unto him seem best.